3358 
'•^'^ The Angel at the Gate 



Gelia Parkef Woolley 













GopiglitF_LaJ4_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIR 




CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY 



The Angel at the Gate 

An Raster Fantasy 

PROLOGUE AND ONE ACT 



by 



CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY 



"What is excellent, 
As God lives, is permanent; 
Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain, 
Heart's love will meet thee again." 






Copyright 1919 

by The Celia Parker WooUey Memorial Committee 

of the Chicago Woman's Club 

All rights of production and translation reserved 




\5'i 



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O^JID 52028 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 



This drama is printed under the auspices of The Celia 
Parker Woolley Memorial Committee of the Chicago 
Woman's Club. It came to the committee through the 
courtesy of Mrs. Woolley's friend, Mrs. Melida Pappe, to 
whom it was given by Dr. Woolley after Mrs. Woolley's 
death. 

The play was read before the Chicago Woman's Club 
several years ago and was received with enthusiasm, and 
the committee feels assured that those v/ho heard its first 
recital will be repaid by a reading of it. 

The proceeds from the sale of the book will be given 
to the Frederick Douglass Center which was founded by 
Mrs. Woolley and to which she gave the last fourteen 
years of her life. 

Jessie E. Shears Carnovale, 

Chairman of The Celia Parker Woolley 

Memorial Committee 

of the Chicago Woman's Club. 



— 3 — 



Celia Parker WooUey 
1848-1918 

WHEN the voice of one from whom we have 
been accustomed to take counsel, direction, 
encouragement and stimulus is stilled, the 
natural impulse asserts itself to recapture and pre- 
serve in permanent form the fugitive written words 
called forth by one or another special occasion, or 
by the urgency for expression, seeking by this means 
to prolong an intimacy with the thought of a van^ 
ished presence. 

With this motive the accompanying Parable of 
The Angel at the Gate — is published. 

Immortal literature has been transmitted by use 
of parables; Dante thus embodies in his Divine 
Comedy, his philosophy, ethics and devout aspira- 
tion. St. John, the Divine, could find no other 
vehicle by which to convey the revelation given to 
him. He who spoke as none other, "without a par- 
able spoke not unto the multitude." Mrs. Woolley 
has chosen this form in which to phrase her pro- 
foundest convictions wreathed with beautiful im- 
agery ; perhaps it may not be for "him who runs to 
read" but the appeal to reflection is irresistible. 
Young people and young-hearted old people enjoy 
Mrs. Woolley's novels, for their understanding and 
sympathy with romance. An inquirer for one of 
these novels at the Public Library was met with the 
reply that the book was out to be rebound, an 
instance which illustrates the gift for speaking the 
common language of the human heart. 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Mrs. Woolley was as truly a minister of religion 
after she left the pulpit as while maintaining re- 
ligious services in the accustomed order. An idealist, 
she was none the less a pragmatist; what she ac- 
cepted as true in philosophy she was ready to apply 
to conduct; partly this was due to moral courage 
but it must also be recognized that in such of her 
endeavors as were a departure from custom she met 
with fullest recognition of purpose and co-operation 
in her family. Conscious of the loss which a com- 
munity sustains because of artificial, separating 
barriers, Mrs. Woolley used the hospitality of her 
home to promote social intercourse between those 
with common interests and purpose irrespective of 
difference of race. Perhaps none other today may 
be found to demonstrate as she did, her faith in the 
things that unite, her endeavor to overcome the 
things that separate human beings from mutual 
sympathy. Her personality, that indefinable quality 
which is inimitable may have been the chief factor 
in her achievements but if we who remain let the 
causes languish for which she labored we are not 
worthy to be called her friends. 

Mary H. Wilmarth. 



^6 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 



THE CHARACTERS 
In the Order of Their Appearance. 

JUDGE GRAHAM, of the Court of Domestic Re- 
lations. 

LENA OLSON, his housekeeper. 

THE ANGEL at the Gate. 

PAUL and his wife. 

EDWIN and LAURA. 

A KING and his rebellious subject. 

A CLERGYMAN and some of his church members. 

TWO PROFESSORS of the Higher Learning. 

A GROUP of mystical believers with their leader. 

CESAR and ANABEL. 

A GROUP of Newly-Transcended Souls. 

JIM. 

THE RECTOR.' 

BILL and NANCY. 



— 7 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 



PROLOGUE. 

Time, Easter Eve. 

(Scene, Judge Graham's library, furnished in the 
homely hut comfortable style of the late-Vic- 
torian era. A large window at the back of the 
stage heavily draped zvith rich lace and damcLsk, 
a small table belozv bearing a pot of Easter lilies. 
A long, black walnut table in the center of the 
room covered with books and magazines. Luxu- 
riously cushioned chairs in walnut and leather. 
An open fireplace on the left flanked by tall 
bookcases with others on the opposite side of the 
room. An easy chair in front of the grate. 
Above on the mantle a cabinet photograph of a 
woman in early middle life, hair in pompadour 
and a face of high-bred repose and intellectual- 
ity. Above the picture droops a single Easter 
lily in a slender glass vase. A bronze plaque of 
a monk's head mounted on crimson velvet hangs 
opposite the fireplace.) 

(Enter from the right JUDGE GRAHAM car- 
rying a bag of pamphlets and papers and a zualk- 
ing stick. Tall, rather heavy figure with smooth 
face and iron -gray hair. He looks tired and 
somewhat depressed. Almost at the same mo- 
ment a zuoman enters from the left, LENA 
OLSON, an old member of the household zvho 
combines the functions of housekeeper, general 

— 9 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

factotum and a privileged friend. Dressed in 
dark skirt and white waist. She comes rapidly 
forzi^ard to assist the judge, taking his bag and 
stick and helping him to remove his overcoat.) 

LENA. 

You're late again, Sir, and you are all tired out. 

Why, your coat's wet. 

GRAHAM. 

Yes, a little. It's beginning to rain. 

LENA. 

Not very good weather for Easter. 

GRAHAM. 

Easter. So it is. It comes early this year. The 

weather-man promises nothing but rain and sleet. 

LENA. 

(Stoops to light the fire in the grate, then wheels 
the chair nearer the blaze.) 

Do sit down, Sir. 

(He leans heavily on the chair as he walks 
around it and sinks wearily into the seat.) 

You would walk, I suppose? 

GRAHAM. 

No; to-night I took a car, and hung on to a strap 

most of the time. That's harder than walking. 

LENA. 

And that new autymobile standin* in the g'rarge, 

doin' nothin'. 

GRAHAM. 

The auto doesn't need exercise as a horse would, 

and the doctor says I do. How long can I rest 

here, Lena, before dinner? 

LENA. 

A good hour, and longer if you want. Why not let 

— 10 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

me bring your dinner here? You're alone and all 

beat out. 

GRAHAM. 

(With a touch of fret fulness.) 
But I sha'n't be alone. Thompson and Dodge are 
coming. Didn't I telephone? 
LENA. 

No, but it don't matter. Some of them domestickers, 
I s'pose. Why can't they let you alone, out of 
court ? 
GRAHAM. 

These are not "domestickers." They want me to 
take the appellate, but, 

(In a weary tone.) 
I don't know — I don't know. Of course it's an 
honor — but I'm so tired. 

(Leans hack in his chair and closes his eyes.) 
LENA. 

Humph. Politicals. They ain't much better. No 
wonder you're tired, settin' in that stuffy courtroom 
all day, with all sorts of people and all sorts of 
smells. Quarrellin' all the time, marryin' and 
divorcin'. What's an Appellate? Never mind, I 
don't want to know. I want you to rest. 

(She brings a hassock for his feet and places a 

small cushion at the back of his head.) 
GRAHAM. 

How you do dislike the "domestickers," Lena. 
Marriage isn't always a failure. 

(He looks up at the photograph and sees the 

flower.) 
Did you put the lilv there? 
LENA. 

(Bozvs.) 

— 11 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

I know yourn wa'n't, nor hern. 

GRAHAM. 

How long is it, Lena, since she went away? 

LENA. 

Nine years next May. 

GRAHAM. 

We miss her about as much as the day she left us, 

don't we? 

(She draws her handkerchief from her pocket 

and wipes her eyes.) 
You are a good church-member, Lena. Where do 
you think she is? 
LENA. 

In heaven, of course. 
GRAHAM. 
What is she doing? 
LENA. 

Singin' and praisin' God, like the rest of 'em. 
GRAHAM. 

(In a slow, sleepy tone.) 
Um-m. She didn't have much of a voice when she 
was here. She liked books and pictures — and help- 
ing people best. 
LENA. 

There was a pair of you when it comes to helpin' 
people. There ain't any sick or poor people in 
heaven. 
GRAHAM. 

No — no ? I suppose not. I should think Edith would 
find it rather dull. How would you like a land- 
scape without shadows, bright staring daylight all 
the time with never a touch of cool, restful dark- 
ness, in which to sleep and dream — or not to dream ? 
— 12 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

LENA. 

I don't know what you mean, Sir. You ain't restin'. 

I'll go and see about dinner. 

(She is about to turn away when he bends for- 
zvard with a slight groan, pressing his hand to 
his heart and fumbling in his pocket. LENA 
anticipates him, leans over and draws out a 
small vial and pours two or three tablets into his 
trembling hand; he swallows them and leans 
back in his chair, breathing painfully. She looks 
down on him anxiously. In a few minutes he 
opens his eyes and looks at her with a reassuring 
smile.) 

GRAHAM. 

Don't be frightened, I'm all right now. 

LENA. 

Do go to bed, Sir, and let me send them men back 

home. You ain't fit to see company. 

GRAHAM. 

No-no. I'm better. I'm all right. . . . You needn't 

stay. 

(She turns slowly away.) 

When they come you may as well show them in 

here. 

LENA. 

(Wheels suddenly.) 

Indeed, I shall do no such thing. You've got to 

get some rest. 'Twon't hurt them politicals to set 

a spell. You stay right where you are until I come 

for you. 

(She turns off the light and goes out.) 

GRAHAM. 

(Looks up at the photograph zvith a whimsical 
smile.) 

— 13 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Same old Lena. 

(He is restless, moves uneasily in his chair, 

closes his eyes and opens them, still talking to 

■ the photograph.) 

I want to see you, Edith — I do want to see you. I 

can't think of a woman like you being dead — just 

crumbled into dust, or blown out like a candle. 

. Thompson and Dodge are coming — they 

want me to take the Appellate, but I don't seem to 

care much about it. I wish I could talk it over 

with you. I'd give a hundred Appellates for one of 

our old talks. Those old talks. We did love each 

other — we did suit. How close we were, body, 

mind and soul. I want to see you, dear. Can't you 

manage it — some way? 

(Falls into a light slumber — opens his eyes zvith 
a start and fixes them with an intent look on the 
photograph.) 
Why Edith. Is that you? You heard me? You 
have come — come for me? Now? 

(He puts his trembling hands on the arms of the 
chair and tries to rise, hut falls hack; makes 
another effort arid stands weakly on his feet, 
clutching the mantle for support, upsetting the 
vase which falls zvith the lily to the floor; he 
takes a feehle step or two to the chair and sinks 
into it, bending forward to pick up the flower. 
The pain seizes him again, he falls hack help- 
lessly, then sinks downzvard into a huddled heap. 
There are two or three shuddering breaths, then 
silence. One hand hangs over the arm of the 
chair, the fingers clasping the lily.) 

Curtain. 

— 14 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 



THE PLAY 

Time, Easter Morn. 

Scene. 

A long, low parapet, or etnbankment of clouds, 
purple and blwe, with wide, starry spaces be- 
yond. The scene is bathed in a mild radiance 
whose source is unseen. From time to time it 
is illumined with a more brilliant light which 
arouses deep emotion in those who see it and is 
the subject of eager controversy. The main en- 
trance through which nezvcomers appear is on 
the upper right, other openings are, one, on the 
lower right, two on the left. A low bench of 
antique pattern stands in the middle of the stage. 
An organ is pealing on the outside, and voices 
are heard singing an Easter anthem. THE 
ANGEL at the Gate stands on the lozver left 
looking out upon the singers and joining his 
voice to theirs. He is dressed in a monk's cos- 
tume with flowing robe and a hood with purple 
lining. His features are of Dantesque pattern 
and Italian coloring. His expression varies ac- 
cording to his mood; is grave, sometimes 
somber, or more genial, at times humorous. He 
has a brilliant smile which lights up his dark 
countenance with a pleasant effect. Behind him, 
near the parapet as yet unnoticed, stands 
JUDGE GRAHAM, looking much the same as 
in his first appearance, but with every trace of 
weariness and depression removed. He is evi- 
dently perplexed and full of wonder over his 
new surroundings, but his face is untroubled. 
An Easter lily hangs from the breast of his coat. 

-IS — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

(Turns slowly as the music ceases, sees the new 
arrival and moves quickly to him, his hand ex- 
tended.) 
I beg your pardon. I am ashamed to be found 
lagging at my post. You have just come among us ? 
GRAHAM. 
Yes. Edith brought me. 

(Spoken with extreme simplicity and trust.) 
ANGEL. 

(Bends an examining glance upon him.) 
Then, I take it, you know where you are? 
GRAHAM. 

I am wondering. Everything is changed. I was 
never in a place like this before. A short time ago 
I was sitting in my library, resting before dinner. 
I was very tired. My body felt like lead. Now I 
feel so light, so free — as if I were young again. 
Either I have "passed on" as we say, entering sud- 
denly upon "another state,'* — died, you know — or I 
am simply dreaming. Only . . . 

(With a touch of the old weariness.) 
if I am dreaming I ought to waken soon. Thompson 
and Dodge were coming. There was some political 
business . 
ANGEL. 

And, if it were not a dream — if it were to prove 
the plainest, most complete reality you ever 
faced . . . 
GRAHAM. 

Ah-h. It is true then. I am dead. I knew it would 
come suddenly. . . . So — it is all over with. 

— 16 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

It is a relief to see you take it so quietly. You 

seem neither sorry nor afraid. 

GRAHAM. 

Is there anything to be afraid of? 

(The ANGEL smiles and shakes his head 
slowly.) 

And how could I be sorry when I am with Edith 

again? She told me to remain here a while; she 

said you would tell me what to do next. 

ANGEL. 

When I have learned it myself. 

GRAHAM. 

(In surprise.) 

Do you not know Edith? 

ANGEL. 
(Amused.) 

I do not recall her just now. There are a good 

many of us, you know. 

(Extends his hand again.) 

You are very welcome. 
(With a flashing smile.) 

Make yourself at home. 

GRAHAM. 

(After a short pause in which he has been mov- 
ing about observing his new surroundings.) 

You are the warden — or keeper of this place ? You 

see I speak in the old terms. 

ANGEL. 

There is no warden in the usual sense. The place 

is open to all who come. But this is not so much a 

place as a state of being. 

GRAHAM. 

I understand — that is, I do not understand in the 

-17 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

least, but they were beginning to teach that down 

below. 

ANGEL. 

There is plenty of time. Naturally, you expected 

someone to meet you. 

(With a quizzical look.) 
Perhaps you expected some sort of challenge, a 
quo warranto? 
GRAHAM. 

No; we were not indoctrinated in the old views, 
Edith and I. Some pressing duty called her away, 
doubtlessly. 

(In a wistful tone.) 
ANGEL. 

(Who is a little embarrassed over this recur- 
rence of conjugal feeling, which he cannot he 
expected to understand — drily.) 
Some "higher duty" perhaps. I am told that the 
women on earth are fast learning to substitute such 
for the old tasks which Nature designed them to 
perform. The fashion is spreading — upwards. 
GRAHAM. 

(Smiling.) 
The world moves fast. Great changes are in prog- 
ress. 

ANGEL. 

No doubt. The earth still makes but one revolu- 
tion in the twenty-four hours, I suppose? It was 
an ambitious little planet when I lived upon it. 
GRAHAM. 

(Regards him tuith new interest.) 
That was a long time ago I infer? 
ANGEL. 
Only five hundred years. 

— 18 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

GRAHAM. 

Five hundred years. . . . And you are here — the 
gatekeeper? I beg your pardon. 
ANGEL. 

We share alike here in a wide variety of tasks. 
(Paces hack and forth zvith a long, slow stride, 
speaking in a reminiscent tone.) 
I was a drubbing monk — and a reformer — "Fa- 
natic" — ''Heretic" — men called me. A pestiferous 
fellow whose hand and voice were forever raised 
against the prevailing powers in church and state. 
. . . And with reason, 

(Drawing himself up proudly.) 
with much reason. 

(He stands a short time in silent, stern medi- 
tation, then breaks info a shame-faced laugh.) 
You see how our little earthly vanities cling to us 
still. 
GRAHAM. 

(Regards him thong Jit fully.) 
You were a monk — a reforming monk — in the Mid- 
dle Ages. . . . 
ANGEL. 

Aye. How they feared and hated me, those corrupt 
old rulers in Florence. Even the good brothers 
of San Marco . . . 

GRAHAM. 

(Excitedly.) 
Florence . . . San Marco . . . Now I know. I 
have been studying your face. Your portrait has 
hung for years in my library. You are — 
ANGEL. 

(Lays his finger on hu lip.) 
— 19 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Enough of this; but 1 admit I am not sorry you 

have guessed. 

GRAHAM. 

(Looks at him with wondering admiration.) 
They — they burned you at the stake. 
ANGEL. 

So they did — so they did. But you see, like the 
famous bird of ancient lore, I have risen from my 
ashes. 

GRAHAM. 

And you are here — in this place of humble service ? 
ANGEL. 

Do not let that disturb you. St. Peter's office is not 
so humble. Stay by me for the present. 

(His eye is caught by some object outside.) 
Here comes a member of one of our heavenly 
choirs. I call him my Bright Spirit. A very 
humble figure on earth. 

(Turning to GRAHAM.^ 
Among all who are here, the members of the ce- 
lestial choirs have attained the highest state of 
beatitude, of spiritual grace and perfection, which 
but for the quick response they make to every call 
of duty is purely impersonal — a state of almost 
absolute selflessness. 
GRAHAM. 

(Hesitatingly.) 
I think I should not care for that. It is too much 
like the doctrine of Nirvana. 
ANGEL. 

(Smiling.) 
No. You and I belong to a more active type. We 
think rather well of our personalities. 

(The place is newly lighted by the sivift, noise- 

— 20 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

less entrance of PAUL ; a young man of beam- 
ing but modest looks, dressed in a Fra Angelico 
garb, and carrying a small, stringed instrument.) 

Ah, my brother, it is you. , Something has hap- 
pened. Can I serve you? 

PAUL. 

Something told me my wife was coming. I came to 

meet her. She may be frightened. 

ANGEL. 

(Turns and looks through the entrance.) 

She is here now. 

WOMAN. 

(Enters. She gazes froimiingly and a little 
zuildly about her. She does not seem afraid and 
looks at the ANGEL reproachfully.) 

Are you St. Peter? 

ANGEL. 

(With a lively smile.) 

St. Peter is taking his after-dinner nap. I am his 

temporary substitute. 

WOMAN. 

(Regards him ivith suspicion.) 

I thought something was wrong. I found the door 

wide open. Anybody can come in. 

ANGEL. 

Yes, anyone can come in. The door is always open. 

WOMAN. 

That is very strange. 

(Frightened by a sudden thought.) 

Is this not heaven? I have not come to the wrong 

place? 

ANGEL. 

This is heaven to those who can so realize it — and 

help to make it such. 

— 21 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

WOMAN. 

(Heeds him slightly and speaks in a peevish 

tone.) 
Of course I know that. I have died. I did not want 
to die. Nobody wants to die. Not that I was 
afraid. I have always been a religious woman. 

(She has not discovered her husband, whose 

presence is zvithheld from her. He has made 

several attempts to place himself at her side but 

is stayed by some invisible force, and stands 

looking at her troubled face.) 
ANGEL. 

Is there no one here whom you know — whom you 
would like to see? 
WOMAN. 
My husband died three years ago. 

(In a sharper and higher key.) 
Why does he not come to meet me? Does he not 
know? Why does not someone tell him? 

(Sees the Bright Spirit. Speaks in a frightened 

tone.) 
Who is that? 
ANGEL. 

That is one of our heavenly choristers. On earth, 
simply a good man, generally overlooked; faithful 
in little things, of clean upright life and cheerful 
spirit. 
WOMAN. 
My husband was something like that. But, 

(Complainingly.) 
he could never get on in the world. I could not 
have things, like other women. 

(She looks at him more closely, but shrinkingly.) 
— 22 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

He is very beautiful. He must be of very high 

station. 

ANGEL. 

We know nothing of stations here, sister. Do you 

not think you would know your husband if you 

were to see him? 

WOMAN. 

Know my husband ! Of course I should know him. 

ANGEL. 

Strange transformations are sometimes wrought in 

the change called death. Those who lived in closest 

ties may pass each other by unknowing; while 

others, strangers before, may greet each other like 

old friends and heart's kin, recognizing each other, 

perhaps, even across the bridge of ages. 

(He looks at GRAHAM with a smile, who 

flushes zvith pleasure.) 
WOMAN. 

I should know Paul well enough. Where is he? 
Why does he not come to help me? 
ANGEL. 

Patience. Someone will help you. This man will 
go with you if you wish. 

(Indicating PAUL.j 
WOMAN. 

(Shrinks back.) 
No — no ; I will go by myself. 
ANGEL. 
This way then, sister. 

(He conducts her to an opposite exit where she 

disappears.) 
PAUL. 

(Looks at the ANGEL in distress.) 
— 23 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Why would she not let me go with her ? Why did 

she not know me? 

ANGEL. 

Why indeed? ''He that hath eyes, let him see." 

Do not be troubled, she will find friends. 

(Laying his hands affectionately on tJie young 

man's shoulders.) 
And how is it with you, my loved songster? 
PAUL. 

(With a radiant smile.) 
I am very happy. I have so much to learn. I was 
so weak and ignorant before, and now I am so 
happy. 

(His face falls.) 
But I have no right to be happy while she is lonely 
and sad. 
ANGEL. 

Go your ways, my brother, go your ways. Be 
happy. There are seasons when we can help, and 
there are others when we must refrain from help- 
ing. Farewell. 

(Exit PAUL, the ANGEL looking after him 

zvith loving interest.) 
GRAHAM. 
That was a peculiar case. 

(A humorous smile lights his face.) 
I did not expect to find another Court of Domestic 
Relations up here. 
ANGEL. 

Is that the latest name for it? 
GRAHAM. 

The latest. You would be interested in our new 
methods in judicature. Our courts are daily grow- 
ing less legal than humane. 
— 24 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

(Is absorbed in his own thoughts, not altogether 

pleasant.) 
That is very interesting. Some day you must tell 
me all about it. . . . 

(He stands a fezv minutes in frozuning reflec- 
tion, then breaks out impetuously.) 
I like not these domestic tangles. . . . They 
are not for my unwinding. Our friend, Paul, 
should also have been born in the fifteenth century. 
He belongs to the monastic order, not to the long 
array of disappointed husbands. ... I am a 
celibate. I wear the old habit. 

(Looking dozvn on his gozvn and raising the 

rosary to his lips.) 
And the tonsure. 

(Touching his hood.) 
The brain works underneath with no sense of re- 
striction. I am celibate still. ... I should not 
say it — but I do not like women. When I am called 
upon to perform any needful office for them, I do 
as well as I can — that is, not well. 

(Walks back and forth zvith a nervous stride.) 
GRAHAM. 

(Much aroused.) 
You had dealings with many women in your church 
in Florence. You made them burn their finery. 
ANGEL. 
Such methods are outgrown here. 

(Continues to move about, speaking.) 
There was one woman who was different from the 
others. She was the only woman who ever beat me 
in argument. 

— 25 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

GRAHAM. 

That was annoying, naturally. 

ANGEL. 

She was of pagan birth and training, very learned 

— for a woman. She had a rich nature. To the 

best that was in the unsanctified culture of the 

ancient world she added Christian meekness and 

patience. 

GRAHAM. 

My Edith is like that. 

ANGEL. 

(Summons a patient look.) 
But there came a time when my young disciple, as 
I hoped to make her, was not so patient. She came 
to plead with me to save the life of a near relative. 
He was a good man, but he was on the wrong side. 
The times were troublesome. Good men were sac- 
rificed on both sides. She could see only the per- 
sonal side of the question — like a woman. Bitter 
words passed between us. We parted. I lost a 
valuable friend and ally — from an unexpected 
source. 
GRAHAM. 

(After a brief pause.) 
Why do you sav she beat you in argument? 
ANGEL. 

(With a deprecating gesture.) 
Probably because I was unable to convince her with 
mine. 

GRAHAM. 

Edith would say that men train women to the per- 
sonal view, then blame them for employing it. 
ANGEL. 

(Rather brusquely.) 

— 26 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Your superior woman can always find a reply. 
GRAHAM. 

(Good-humoredly.) 
Certainly. What is superiority for? 
ANGEL. 

Let us end these retrospects. What earthlings we 
are still. About this new court you spoke of . . . 
What did you call it ? 
GRAHAM. 

There are many branches. Mine was the Court of 
Domestic Relations. 
ANGEL. 
Very good. You are just the man I need. 

(Takes his arm and leads him to the lozver left 

exit.) 
Do you see that man with the melancholy counte- 
nance walking by the river ? 

(Pointing.) 
He came a few days ago and has spent all his time 
in a fruitless search for his wife. She, it seems, 
has been here a number of years. He has looked 
for her far and near, and he has called her by 
name — but — 

(Looking meaningly at GRAHAM.j 
he gets no reply. 

(With slow emphasis.) 
And he will not understand. 
GRAHAM. 

I am not sure I do either. Do you mean that she 
knows he is here — that she does not wish to see 
him? 
ANGEL. 

Question him yourself. See what you can do for 
him. I turn the case over to you. 

— 27- 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

GRAHAM. 

To me ! But I am an entire stranger here. I know 

nothing of your laws or methods. 

ANGEL. 

You have brought your own stock of knowledge 

and experiences with you. The case is in your 

line. . . . He is coming this way. 

EDWIN. 

(Enters. He is a man in early middle life, of 
pleasing looks and a general air of well-being, 
except for the expression of sadness which 
clouds Jiis countenance-) 
ANGEL. 

(Extends his hand.) 
Ah, my friend, we meet again, and 

(With an examining look.) 
you are still unhappy. I want you to meet a new 
friend of mine. He has just come among us, with 
(banteringly) all the latest earthly knowledge upon 
him. Talk to him freely, he can help you better 
than I can. 

(He moves away. EDWIN reaches out his 
hand beseechingly. GRAHAM looks after him 
helplessly. He goes to the farther end of the 
parapet and looks out. Soon he draivs his office 
from the inner folds of his robe and begins to 
read.) 
GRAHAM. 

(Turns to the young man ivith a rueful smile.) 
This is embarrassing to both of us, and a disap- 
pointment, I know, to you ; but I suppose we must 
obey. Shall we sit? 

(He motions to the bench and seats himself.) 
— 28 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

EDWIN. 

(Reluctantly places himself at his side.) 
I fear I have wearied him. 
GRAHAM. 

I am sorry to learn that you are in trouble. 
EDWIN. 

(Hesitatingly.) 
I am so confused — and hurt. I do not understand. 
I have looked for her unceasingly . . . and I 
have called her, but she does not answer, she does 
not come. I thought she would be the first to 
meet me. 
GRAHAM. 

You are speaking of your wife? 
EDWIN. 
Naturally. 
GRAHAM. 

You loved her verv much ? 
EDWIN. 

(Rather coldly.) 
My wife, I said. 
GRAHAM. 
And — and she loved you ? 

(EDWIN turns a questioning and displeased 

look upon him.) 
Pardon me, but there are cases, as you must know, 
where the tie is stronger on one side, and — and 
contains more of the elements of permanence. 
EDWIN. 

(With a faint, ironic smile.) 
You put it very diplomatically. 
GRAHAM. 

Forgive my plain speaking. I am a newcomer and 

not competent to teach anyone. I am sure though, 

— 29 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

that there is one law here and everywhere. One 
law and one condition. The law is Truth, the con- 
dition, Freedom. 
EDWIN. 

That is rather abstract. 
GRAHAM. 

I mean only that most people live in blind, wilful 
delusion of some kind. We were afraid of truth in 
the old life, and often took license for freedom. 
But here both principles should be understood. 
Perfect Candor, Mutual Trust, these must be the 
rules of human intercourse in a place like this. We 
are human still, thank God. Former ties still bind 
us, or are relinquished. 
EDWIN. 

(Turns quickly.) 
Are you one of those who think liglitly of the mar- 
riage bond? 
GRAHAM. 
Not at all, but . . . 
EDWIN. 

Do you mean that she does not wish to see me, that 
I shall not find her? 
GRAHAM. 

I cannot tell, but may we not infer? 
EDWIN. 

Then why does she not tell me so? 
GRAHAM. 
So she should. 

(Edwin makes a motion to rise, but GRAHAM 

lays a hand gently on Jiis arm.) 
Tell me, what was the nature of the tie between 
you? You — you had like tastes, opinions, inter- 
ests? 

— 30 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

EDWIN. 

(Embarrassed.) 
Laura was a very accomplished woman, above me 
in culture — books, pictures — that sort of thing. 
GRAHAM. 

And in disposition — character? 
EDWIN. 

A very strong character. 
GRAHAM. 

Strong — yes. But was she just, reasonable, con- 
siderate? Many "superior" women are not that. 
EDWIN. 

(Hesitatingly.) 
Laura was much admired — a little spoiled, per- 
haps; and she never liked to face anything disa- 
greeable. 
GRAHAM. 

Ah-h. What is called ''culture" often fails in true 
understanding, and moral courage. 

(EDWIN looks thoughtful.) 
And your contribution to the union ? 
EDWIN. 

Very little. I could only give her money. I had 
plenty of that. 
GRAHAM. 

(Musingly.) 
Money is useful — down there, the great domestic 
lubricator. My work was among the unhappily- 
mated, and the economic factor was always upper- 
most. 
EDWIN. 

(After a pause.) 
Tell me. Sir, what I ought to do. Much as I love 
her, I would not keep her against her will. 

— 31 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

GRAHAM. 

(Throzving an arm about his shoulder.) 

Now we are reaching a basis of settlement. You 

say you have called her — call her again. 
(Both men rise.) 

EDWIN. 

(Holds out trembling hands and calls entreat- 
ingly.) 

Laura. 

GRAHAM. 

(Looking into the distance, speaks, not loudly 
but in a voice that has a note of command.) 

If you hear him, you should reply. 

(Enter from the lower left, LAURA. She has a 
refined countenance which zvears a look of con- 
scious superiority. She looks at GRAHAM 
with a displeased face.) 

EDWIN. 

(Springing forzi'ard.) 

Laura — Laura. At last you have come. 

LAURA. 

(Carelessly.) 

Is that you, Ned ? Did you want me ? 

EDWIN. 

Want you? O, Laura — I have looked for you so 

long. I have been so lonely without you all these 

years. I thought — I hoped. . . . 

LAURA. 

I am sorry — but things are not always easy here. 

GRAHAM. 

(Comes nearer; he and LAURA look long and 
steadily at each other. EDWIN has moved 
away and stands at a distafice, his back turned, 
his head bent.) 

— 32 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Why do vou not tell him the truth? 
LAURA. 

(Pettishly.) 
I do not wish to hurt him. 
GRAHAM. 

You are hurting him, and do you not see how this 
long habit of evasion and subterfuge is hurting 
you? Indecision is sometimes the worst of sins. 
He is a generous man, he desires your happiness 
more than his own. 
LAURA. 

(Surprised at this praise of one whom she 

aliuays regarded lightly, turns and looks at her 

husband, then hack at GRAHAM. Her face 

clouds.) 
No^ — I cannot. I should think he would see for 
himself. "Until death do us part." Why, then 
does death not part? 
GRAHAM. 

Because the rule of action lies within. You are 
behaving weakly, dishonestly. 

(Takes her hand and speaks more gently.) 
Try the other way, my sister. It will make, you 
both happier. 
LAURA. 

(Hesitates and wavers, then pushes the hand 

away.) 
No— I cannot. It is too painful. 

(She turns to depart but stops at the exit and 

looks back.) 
Are you coming, Ned? 
EDWIN. 

(Wheels and steps foulards her, stops and looks 

at her uncertainly.) 

— ^Z — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Do you wish me to come, Laura? 

LAURA. 

(Impatiently.) 

Of course; why not? 

EDWIN. 

(After a moment's manful struggle with him- 
self.) 

No, Laura — not no(w. Don't bother about me. 

Goodbye. 

(He steps quickly to her, seizes her hands and 
looks at her searchingly, then takes her face 
between his palms, bends and kisses her on the^ 
forehead.) 

Why did you not tell me yourself, dear? I hope you 

will be very happy. 

{He releases her. She looks at him with a 
variety of feelings flitting over her face, then 
turns swiftly and goes out. EDWIN stands a 
moment with his face dropped in his hands, then 
raises it with a new look of decision.) 

ANGEL. 

(Comes forward.) 

That was well done, brothers, both. 
(Gives a hand to each.) 
(To GRAHAM.) 

Did I not say you could help me? 
(To EDWIN.) 

Do not be downcast. Good things are awaiting 

you. Stay with us for the present. 

(The three stand in thoughtful silence for a 

space.) 

(Faltering footsteps are heard outside. The 

ANGEL turns toward the entrance.) 

— 34 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

What have we here? Something quite out of the 

common. 

(He motions and the three retire to distant parts 
of the stage.) 

(Enter the KING, a man in middle life, with 
uncertain step and bewildered air. He is of 
slight stature hut noble hearing, handsomely 
dressed in afternoon costume with several deco- 
rations on his breast. He sees no one at first 
and looks about him confusedly, passing his 
hand across his brow. There is a sound of hur- 
rying feet outside and a YOUNG !^IAN enters 
throwing himself at the other's feet. He is pale, 
unkempt and poorly dressed, and shozvs signs of 
some fearful struggle through which he has 
just passed.) 

YOUNG MAN. 

Sire — Sire — forgive me, Sire. 

(The other looks down on him wonderingh.) 

KING. 

Forgive vou? What have I to forgive? 

YOUNG MAN. 

Do you not know me, Sire? Do you not know 

what has happened? It was I, Sire, who . . . 
(The ANGEL has drawn near and lays a hand 
on his shoulder. The KING first looks from one 
to the other, then to the ANGEL.) 

KING. 

I don't know what he means. ... I don't 

know where I am. Everything is changed. 

ANGEL. 

(Looks at him solemnly.) 

Even as it was spoken: "In the twinkling of an 

eye." 

— 35 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

(The other looks startled hut still does not com- 
prehend.) 

Do not be alarmed. All is well with you — much 

better than you can divine. 

YOUNG MAN. 

(Still on his knees, holds up his hands implor- 
ingly.) 

Sire — Sire. . . 

ANGEL. 

(Again checks him.) 

Hush. Do you not see that you only distress him? 

Calm yourself. 

KING. 

(To the ANGEL.) 

This young man seems to be in deep trouble. . . 

he seems to think that he has injured me, but I 

never saw him. before. 

YOUNG MAN. 

O, Sire, does not your Majesty remember . . . 
(The ANGEL again checks him.) 

KING. 

(Raises his hand to his head with a troubled 
look.) 

Majesty? . . , 

ANGEL. 

Patience. Everything will come right soon. 

(A short silence. GRAHAM aitd EDWIN 
have drazvn near and are looking on this strange 
scene with intense interest.) 

Perhaps you were a great ruler somewhere — ^before 

you came here. 

KING. 

(Deeply perplexed.) 

Perhaps I was . . . Yes, I think I was — but 
— 36 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

I did not care for it ... I was not equal to 
it . . . 

{Suddenly, after he has looked about him.) 
What place is this? What has happened? 

ANGEL. 

In a moment. Have you no recollection how you 

came here? What is the last thing you remember? 

KING. 

(Reflecting a space, speaking slowly and at in- 
tervals.) 

I have a dim remembrance of a fete-day . . . 

There had been a great battle. We were the 

victors . . . 
(Wearily.) 

1 do not remember what the battle was about . . . 

ANGEL. 

That is of no consequence. 

KING. 

We were on our way to the cathedral to give God 

thanks . . . 

(YOUNG MAN still on his knees groans and 
hides his face.) 

The streets were full of people . . . banners 

floating and bands playing ... I was in a 

carriage . . . and there were faces — faces 

everywhere . . . Some of them looked at me 

kindly — others with scowling hatred . . . 

YOUNG MAN. 

O, my God. 

KING. 

(Looks down on him.) 

ANGEL. 

Go on, please. You were sitting in a carriage. 

— 37- 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Crowds of people were following you, shouting and 

singing . . . Then something happened. 

KING. 

I don't know what it was. Something struck me, 

I think. 

(Pressing his hand to his heart.) 
The air was full of angry cries . . . Every- 
thing was in confusion . . . Then darkness 
. . . When I came to myself — I was here. 
(Looks around him at the three regarding him 
with sympathetic faces.) 
What is it? What is it? A dream? I will not 
waken? I will not have to go back to all that 
. . . the dull routine . . . the processions 
and the drills . . . the festivals and pageants? 
And always wherever I went — that crowd of peo- 
ple. Most of them, I knew, were hungry and very 
poor — but I could do nothing for them. I could 
never get near them . . . They were kept back 
by policemen with clubs — trampled on sometimes 
— to make room for me — for me. 

(His voice rises to a painful cry. Recovers him- 
self, his figure straightens, a look of clearer re- 
membrance sweeps over his face.) 
Yes, — I remember now. I was a king — emperor, 
something like that. 

(Boyishly.) 
But I never liked it. I could never do as I wished 
. . . Someone always stood in the way — between 
me and the people ... I will not have to go 
back? 

(Looking anxiously at the ANGEL.) 
— 38 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

Be comforted. You have finished the old life. 

This is the New Life. 

(To the YOUNG MAN who is crouching at the 

feet of the KING sobbing.) 
Quiet, brother. 
KING. 

(Looking dozvfi on him.) 
Why is he so unhappy? No — no. Do not kneel 
to me — or kiss my hand. I hope no one will ever 
kneel to me again or kiss my hand. 
ANGEL. 

Have no fears, brother. Here you are no greater 
than any other freed and living soul — and no less. 

(To the YOUNG MAN.) 
Rise up. 

(The YOUNG MAN stands up; he looks the 
extreme of misery.) 

Now speak. Tell us what you know of this matter. 
YOUNG MAN. 

(Speaks slowly, 'with labored breath.) 
I was horribly mistaken ... I thought I was 
doing a great and noble deed . . . They said 
it was the only way. We cast lots ... I 
hated the task, but I had sworn . . . And if 
I could help to free the people — to give them bread 
. . . When I saw him in the carriage I knew 
it was all a dreadful blunder and mistake. I said 
to myself, this is not a bad man. Killing him won't 
help us. 

(The KING looks at him more attentively.) 

I felt I could never do it ... I aimed and 

fired. I saw him fall forward, his head on his 

breast . . . Then they seized me, a hundred 

— 39 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

hands, fierce, tigerish — pulling, striking, tearing 

. . . I knew nothing until I found myself 

struggling in the void . . . When I emerged, 
(Deeply agitated, his voice rising.) 

the first one I saw was him — him — 
(Pointing with a trembling hand.) 

the man I had . . . 

(Groius suddenly quiet, his arms hang loosely 
at his side, he looks at the KING.) 

Sire, I am your murderer. 

KING. 

(Looks at him long and wonderingly, with no 
hint of resentment. Then a faint, relieved smile 
breaks over his face. He takes the YOUNG 
MAN'S hand.) 

You are my liberator. 

YOUNG MAN. 

(Breaks into sobs.) 

Sire, — I . . . But it was the wrong way. 

ANGEL. 

Yes, it was the wrong way. 

KING. 

(Anxiously.) 

You will not punish him? 

ANGEL. 

We know no punishment here except that which 

lies in growing pains — the soul's perception of its 

own wrong-doing. 

KING. 

(Eagerly.) 

And he may go with me? We may remain to- 
gether ? 

(The ANGEL looks at him zvith extreme kind- 
ness.) 

— 40 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

YOUNG MAN. 
(Brokenly.) 

I am not worthy. 

ANGEL. 

Make yourself worthy. Put aside fruitless sor- 
row. Look before you, not behind. 

(The KING takes the YOUNG MAN'S arm 
and looks at him affectionately.) 

Peace and happiness attend you both, my brothers. 

You can learn more from each other than anyone 

else can teach you. 

KING. 

(To his companion.) 

Come, let us go. There must be so much to see, 

so much to learn. 
(Exit the tzi'o.) 

ANGEL. 

(Looks after him zvith a musing smile, then 
turns to GRAHAM.) 

Poor little kinglet. 

GRAHAM. 

One born to reign, but not to rule. 

EDWIN. 

I should like to know more of that young fellow ; 

there's good stuff in him. 

(A short silence ensues, all three lost in reflec- 
tion. A brilliant but soft light appears, plays 
carelessly about them a fezv minutes and dies 
away. GRAHAM and EDWIN stand looking 
upwards at it and do not notice the ANGEL 
who with a rapt look on his face raises his hands 
in prayer and, lowering them, makes the sign 
of the cross.) 

What light is that? I have seen it before. 
— 41 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

How does it affect you? 

EDWIN. 

Very pleasantly. There is something so personal 

about it, like the touch or near presence of a loved 

friend. 

ANGEL. 

You describe it very well. There are many theories 

about it. You will have to grow into your own 

feelings about it — about its worth and meaning. 
(Enter a small group led by a young man in 
clerical garb. They are excited, look at each 
other with kindling faces and speak in eager 
tones.) 

Did you see it? . . . It went this way . . . 

No, this ... It was so beautiful . . . O, 

what is it? 

LEADER. 

It was ''the light which lighteth every man who 

Cometh into the world." This way — this way. We 

shall see Him very soon now. 
(Exit with the others.) 

GRAHAM. 

(To the ANGEL.) 

Him.? See Him? Do they mean . . . 

(Enter two PROFESSORS of the Higher 
Learning, dressed in cap and gown, discussing 
the same topic, from a modern point of view.) 

FIRST PROFESSOR. 

I incline strongly to the views of Strauss and 

Renan. The story is a very beautiful one and very 

suggestive — it has its uses; but for the most part 

it is purely mythical, built on oral tradition, and 

fed by that love of the marvelous which lies at the 
_42 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

bottom of all religious beliefs, — though not with- 
out its uses for the common people. 
SECOND PROFESSOR. 

I have little interest in the controversy. I am not 
given to mere speculation on any theme. My mind 
is of the order which requires demonstration. I 
am a scientist. The material world offers the most 
instructive field of study, even in this state of being. 
FIRST PROFESSOR. 

Um-m-m. I should not fully agree with you there. 
The mind has various sources of information. 
Fable, myth, tradition — they play their part . . . 

(They step towards the exit.) 
ANGEL. 

(Has been regarding them earnestly and with a 

clouded brow, he stands with folded arms and 

speaks in smothered tones of ivounded feeling 

and rebuke.) 

He is the living Lord of all, God's vice-gerent on 

earth and in Heaven. "Oral tradition !" ''A myth !" 

"No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall 

die with you." 

(The two thus addressed turn at the sound of 

his voice, and ivhen he has finished, look at each 

other ivith abashed faces and are about to pass 

out, when the ANGEL, his tone and manner 

wholly changed, steps nearer and speaks to them 

in humble, entreating tone.) 

Brothers, forgive me, I should not have spoken 

like that. I forgot myself. As though anger and 

scorn helped any in a discussion like this one . . . 

I humbly beg your pardon . . . 

(Turning away.) 
I am so slow to learn — so slow to learn. 
— 43 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

FIRST PROFESSOR. 

There is nothing to forgive. You but spoke your 
mind, as we have done, rather crudely, I have no 
doubt. 

SECOND PROFESSOR. 

If we would limit speech to subjects we fully under- 
stand . . . 

(The three break into smiles, and the tivo de- 
part. The ANGEL wraps his arms in his long 
sleeves, and stands in painful thought. GRA- 
HAM and EDWIN look at him and at each 
other with wondering faces.) 
(Enter another group led by a young woman 
with dreamy countenance, and dressed in flow- 
ing draperies. Her follozifers are women, all 
but tivo — an old man with streaming gray hair 
and beard, the other young and handsome.) 
LEADER. 

It is a symbol, a beautiful symbol. Everything is 
symbolic, rightly understood. We ourselves are 
but symbols, signs, you know, mere reflections sent 
forth from the great supernal Source of Things. 

(Members of the group, speaking in turn.) 
I know ... I understand, only I cannot ex- 
press it as well as our dear leader does ... It 
is so wonderful . . . And so beautiful — And 
so elevating. 
YOUNG GIRL. 

(With a little pout.) 
I do not understand. 
LEADER. 

O, but you will, my dear, you must. A symbol is 
but the outward form of the . . . the thing 
symbolized; an emblem of something which our 

— 44 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

vision is still too gross and carnal to view in its 
native essence. 
DEVOUT DISCIPLE. 
O, yes — essence. That makes it quite clear. 
LEADER. 

All great truths come by indirection. We are noth- 
ing in ourselves. Keep that always in mind. We 
are but waves on the sea, beams from an eternal 
Sun — reflections of the All-True, the All-Good. 
YOUNG GIRL. 

But I do not want to be just a reflection — a wave 
on the sea. I want to be myself. I always did 
enjoy being myself when I was alive. 
YOUNG MAN. 

(Admiringly.) 
I am sure that is all anyone could ask of you now. 
LEADER. 

(Looks at him with mild reproof.) 
That is the disease of personality, my dear. Pray 
to be rid of such tempting thoughts. Try to merge 
yourself ... 
DEVOUT DISCIPLE. 
O, yes — to merge. 
LEADER. 

Be content to be a passing influence, an unseen 
good. There is something very shallow and pal- 
pable 

(With a little shudder.) 
in the thought of a distinct entity. 
YOUNG MAN. 

But you are one of the most distinct — and pleas- 
ing — entities I have ever met. sister. 
LEADER. 

You mean kindly, brother, but I am nothing in my- 
-45 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

self. I am only an instrument, a message — I hope 
— from the Infinite Mind . . . Our Quiet 
Hour draws near. Let us seek some retired spot 
where we can spend it undisturbed and, accord- 
ing to our custom, separately. 

(They pass out, the OLD MAN lingering zvith 

halting steps, his lips moving, turns and speaks 

in quavering tones to the YOUNG MAN and 

GIRL behind.) 
OLD MAN. 

Our sister is very eloquent and highly gifted, but 
she is still very young. I sat under the teachings 
of the great prophet and leader . . . 

(A member of the group re-enters, looking for 

him; she takes his arm, pats it affectionately 

and leads him away.) 
YOUNG MAN. 

Why must our Quiet Hour be spent — separately? 
YOUNG GIRL. 

(Shyly.) 
Perhaps because, otherwise, it might not be a quiet 
hour. 

YOUNG MAN. 

I would keep perfectly still if you wished it. It 
would be enough simply to look at you. 
YOUNG GIRL. 

(Looks a little alarmed and hastens her steps.) 
I fear our leader thinks me rather flippant. This 
is such a beautiful place, it seems a pity not to 
take it as it is, and enjoy it — just as we are. Don't 
you think so? 

(They smile into each other's eyes and pass 

out, hand in hand.) 
ANGEL. 

(With a perplexed look at GRAHAM.) 
— 46 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

This is something altogether beyond me. 
GRAHAM. 

(Smiling.) 
One of the orders of our twentieth-century mystics. 
A new movement, but already divided into many 
sects, differing by a hair's breadth in doctrine, but 
agreeing in one main belief, interpreting everything 
in terms of pure spirit — rather difficult, you know 
while one is still in the flesh. 
ANGEL. 

(With a sigh.) 
Difficult enough here. 
GRAHAM. 

Excellent people, all of them, but as fixed, each in 
their particular dogma as any of your old theo- 
logians. Will the human mind ever free itself 
from dogma? 
ANGEL. 

Dogma is not necessarily an evil; it is an intel- 
lectual device in the search for truth. 

(GRAHAM smiles.) 
But a truce to theology. Here come some old 
friends of mine. 

(Enter CESAR and ANABEL, a colored pair 
of the best old plantation type. They are dressed 
in working clothes, clean and neat. The man is 
older and of darker tint than the zvoman. They 
speak in a modified dialect, in the soft, slow 
tones of the South. The ANGEL meets them 
with extended hands.) 
Ah, Cesar, here you are again, and Anabel. How 
are you both? 
CESAR. 
Fusrate, boss, fusrate. Me an' Anabel's ben havin' 

— 47 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

de best kin* 'o time, jes walkin' roun' an' seein' 
things. This suttinly is de mos' scrumptious kentry 
I ever did see. There's jes one thing Anabel keeps 
frettin' 'bout. I tell her it's ongrateful. 
ANGEL. 

(Looking at ANABEL.) 
What is it Anabel? 
ANABEL. 

I ain' frettin' — not really, an' I ain' ongrateful. 
It's so pretty here an' everybody's so kin'. But O, 

(Clasping her hands and looking at the ANGEL 

longingly.) 
I do want to see — Him. 
ANGEL. 

(Bozifs his head imderstandingly and stands 

silent for a time.) 
To see Him. Many are seeking Him, but you re- 
member what your Bible says ; "Many seek but 
few shall find." 
ANABEL. 

(Hanging her head.) 
I know I am not worthy. 
ANGEL. 

(Places a hand on her shoulder.) 
It is not that. Do not be troubled about that. 

(To CESAR.) 
And you, Cesar, you feel as Anabel does I sup 
pose ? 
CESAR. 

(Embarrassed.) 
Well, you see, boss, I ain' nevah be'n as 'ligious's 
Anabel. I had to wuk mighty hard to pay for de 
house an' to keep my job. 'Pears lak I nevah wuz 
much afraid of de debbil. An' dem pahsons — dey 
— 48 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

do tek up a heap o' yo' time. So, I jes natcherly let 
Anabel an' de chillun go to chu'ch, an' I stayed 
home to smoke an' weed de gyarden. 

(The ANGEL shakes his head in mock gravity, 
GRAHAM and EDWIN laugh.) 
ANGEL. 

(To ANABEL.) 
Where do you expect to find — Him, Anabel? 
ANABEL. 

(Timidly.) 
Didn' He say He would be a setting on de right 
han'? 
CESAR. 

Now I tell Anabel big words like dem jes scar' me 
stiff. I don' want to seem onreverent, boss, but 
there's jes one pusson I want to see in dis yer' 
place. Seems lak I can't settle down or do nothin' 
'til I do see him. 
ANGEL. 

And who is that, Cesar? 
CESAR. 
Massa Linkum. 
EDWIN. 

Good for you, Cesar. 
CESAR. 

You see, boss — p'raps you don' 'member — you's 
be'n here a long time, I spec — it wuz Massa Lin- 
kum gib us our freedom. 
ANABEL. 

(Softly,) 
Jesus freed us first. 
CESAR. 

Dass all right, honey, I ain' sayin' nothin' 'gains' 
dat. But dat wuz difrunt. 

— 49 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

Well, Cesar, I am afraid you are a rather danger- 
ous character. You are a free-thinker and you are 
not afraid of the devil. But it is time you brought 
your wanderings to an end. Do you see that pile 
of logs over there? 

(Pointing outwards.) 
That's a pretty building spot under the trees, by 
the river. Why not build a little home for you and 
Anabel ? 
ANABEL. 

(Clasping her hands:) 
A little home, all our own! Jes' think, honey. 
CESAR. 

(Showing similar delight.) 
Dis suah is de greates' place for s'prises. 

(The two step tozuards the exit. CESAR turns.) 
But I ain' got no tools. 
ANGEL. 

You will find everything you need. What a con- 
firmed skeptic you are, Cesar. Run along. You 
ought to finish the work by sunset. Perhaps some- 
one will come along and help you. 

(Exit both with happy faces, singing outside. 

in low, sweet voices, ''Steal Azmy, Steal Azvay, 

Steal Azvay to Jesus.'') 
GRAHAM. 

(To ANGEL.) 
You did not take Cesar's heresies very seriously, 
yet you held a lively belief in the devil at one time 
yourself. 
ANGEL. 

I did indeed. The world divided between God and 
Satan — with the odds on Satan's side. 

— 50 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

GRAHAM. 

(Musingly, walking back and forth.) 
What ages of human wrong and suffering have 
been built upon that fundamental and wicked lie. 
. . . The problem of good and evil — I suppose 
it does not exist here. I have seen sorrow here — 

(Glancing at EDWIN.) 
And some human weaknesses, but downright evil — 
sin — crime ... 
ANGEL. 

You speak in the terms of the public administrator. 
It was your office to weigh evidence and pronounce 
the verdict, but you did not always relish your task. 
You soon learned that evidence obscures as often 
as it reveals the truth; and the fines and penalties 
which you imposed often made you feel more guilty 
than the worst offender who ever stood before you. 
GRAHAM. 

(Surprised.) 
How could you possibly know that? 
ANGEL. 

I know human nature ; I have learned to trust it 
more than I once did. There are grades and dif- 
ferences here . . . 
CESAR. 

(Re-enters, running in breathlessly.) 
I seen him — I seen him — Massa Linkum, his berrv 
self— 

(ANABEL enters, remaining near the entrance 

and looking at her husband anxiously.) 
ANGEL. 

Tell us about it, Cesar. 
CESAR. 
Ise a tellin' ye. I seen him. I wuz a fetchin' de 

— 51 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

logs; pretty soon a man cum along — jes lak you 
said. He had on a pair of old jeans, and one 
gallus hangin' down. Jerusha! You oughta seen 
de way he han'l dem logs. "Dere, Cesar," he say, 
*'dass a good start." I look up an' dere he wuz — 
Massa Linkum. He laff. "Howdy, Cesar," he 
say, **it tek yo' a long time to know yo' fr'en's." 
Then, Whish! — he wuz gone. I hear him laffin. 
"It tek yo' a long time to know yo' fr'en's." 
ANABEL. 

(Has drawn near and looks at him solicitously.) 
I reckon, honey, youse ben wukkin too hard in de 
sun. 
CESAR. 

(Draws himself up and looks at her reproach- 
fully.) 
Don' ye talk to me like dat, Anabel. I tell ye, I seen 
him. 

(He walks away with an injured air.) 
ANGEL. 

(To ANABEL.j 
Did you see Mr. Lincoln, Anabel? 
ANABEL. 

(Shakes her head slozvly and looks at the 

ANGEL questioningly.) 
Do you think Cesar really did see Massa Linkum? 
ANGEL. 

I think it quite probable. 
ANABEL. 

(Her face lighting.) 
O, then, do you think I shall see Jesus — soon? 

(The light gleams out.) 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

There is the pretty light again. 

(She notes the ANGEL'S attitude. GRAHAM 

and EDWIN stand with bowed heads. She 

speaks eagerly.) 
Was that Him? Was that Jesus? 
ANGEL. 

(Regards her sympathetically.) 
I do not know, Anabel. We see the light and feel 
the blessing that comes with it. We feel Him so 
near — so precious, . . . 
ANABEL. 

(With wondering and sorrozvful face.) 
And is that all? I shall never see Him? You have 
never seen Him? — but why — why? 
ANGEL. 

Perhaps He does not let us see Him in the way we 
wish because He does not wish us to think of Him 
in that way. "God is a spirit and they that worship 
Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth." 
Don't you remember how He rebuked His disciples ? 
"Why callest thou me good?" There — there, Ana- 
bel. You must not grieve, and you must try to be 
content. 
ANABEL. 

(Wiping her eyes and looking at him with a 

faint, trembling smile.) 
Once I thought I heard Him calling me, very softly, 
"Anabel — Anabel" — but it wuz only de chillun call- 
in' me to come and play. 
ANGEL. 

He calls us in many ways, in the children's voices 
and the birds' songs, He smiles upon us in the sunset 
and the blue sky, and is with us in every good word 
and deed. Try to look for Him within. 

-53 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANABEL. 

(Smiling through her tears.) 
I will try. It is good in you to teach me. Now, 
may I run back and tell Cesar that I think he did 
see Massa Linl<um? Ise 'fraid I hu't his feelin's. 
ANGEL. 
Grumpy old Cesar. Run along. 

(She hastens out.) 
GRAHAM. 

Strong meat for babes. 
ANGEL. 

You are the babe — my learned and sophisticated 
friend. 

(After a pause.) 
I can talk to a woman like Anabel. She knows 
how to listen. 

("GRAHAM and EDWIN exchange glances. 

Soon sounds of some far-off disturbance reach 

them, cries of anguish and fear. The ANGEL 

lifts his head alertly. The sounds grozif louder 

and nearer.) 
Another accident on your careless little planet. 

(With a reproachful look at the two.) 
A hundred souls hurled into eternity without a 
moment's warning. Hear them cry from the deep 
abyss. The poor souls — the poor souls. 

fGRAHAM and EDWIN look at him and at 

each other ivith startled, uncomprehending 

faces.) 
Help them. Lean down and send your strong, 
loving thoughts to help them rise. . . . 

(He leans far over the parapet and cries doiun 

into the abyss.) 

— 54 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

Good cheer. Good cheer. Do not be afraid. This 

way — ^this way, friends. 

("GRAHAM and EDWIN follow his example. 
The organ peals from the outside, and voices 
sing triumphantly — "Though I pass through the 
valley of the shadow of death, I zvill fear no 
evil." A few nezvly-transc ended souls enter. 
They are frightened and bewildered. Friends 
and relatives hasten to meet them from the op- 
posite direction. There are cries of welcome, 
scenes of joyful reunion. Brothers and sisters, 
friends and lovers greet and comfort each other. 
A young man staggers in. GRAHAM meets and 
grasps his hand.) 

GRAHAM. 

Let me help you. 

JIM. 

{Clinging to him and gasping.) 

A horrible accident. . . . Train ditched. . . 

Everybody mad with fright and agony. I found 

myself at the bottom of the coach — I was pinned 

down — ^both legs smashed. . . . 

(Stands, supported by GRAHAM and looks 
around him. A look of utter despair darkens 
his face.) 

O, God, I'm done for — I'm dead. This is the end 

of everything. 

GRAHAM. 
(Soothingly.) 

There — there. Try to calm yourself. You won't 

mind — after awhile. You'll rather like it. 

JIM. 

Like it ! Won't mind ! You wouldn't talk that way 

if you were crack oarsman in the Yale-Harvard 
— 55 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

meet. I was on my way to New London. . . And 

there's Annie. We were to be married next week. 

I had just got a place on a New York daily — we 

were going over to France. 
(Vehemently.) 

I had everything to live for. 

GRAHAM. 

I know — I know. It must be hard to come away, 

to give it all up, when one is so young. 

JIM. 

Hard! Merciful God, how can I bear it? Don't 

talk to me^ — I must fight this thing out by myself. 
(Breaks azuay and is stumbling off, when he 
hears someone calling him.) 

EDWIN. 

(Who has been helping others and has just dis- 
covered him runs to his side and throws his arms 
about him.) 

Jim ! You were one of them ; O, poor fellow — 

poor fellow. 

JIM. 

(Looks at him in a daze, then recognizes him.) 

Uncle Ned? O, Lord, it's true then. It's all up 

with me. . . 

(Struggling to free himself.) 

EDWIN. 

Jim, don't try to get away from me. Let me go 

with you. 

(He looks back at the ANGEL, who has been 
watching them and waves his assent. Exit the 
two, one supporting the other, the other protest- 
ing and exclaiming.) 

— 56 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

JIM. 

It isn't fair I tell you — it isn't fair. . . Annie — 

Annie. 

(Other victims of the disaster appear and are 
led away by friends.) 

RECTOR. 

(Enters. A large man with ponderous step and 
arrogant bearing. He carries a portfolio under 
one arm; stops near the center and looks about 
him with a challenging frown. The ANGEL re- 
gards him curiously. The newcomer speaks to 
him in a haughty tone as if he zvere a servant.) 

Are you the custodian here? 

fGRAHAM froivns and looks at him steadily.) 

ANGEL. 

Not precisely, but I shall be glad to serve you in 

any way I can. You are one of the survivors of 

the late disaster? 

RECTOR. 

Survivors ! 

ANGEL. 

(With a faint smile.) 
It is natural that you should regard yourself at first 
as a victim. 
RECTOR. 

It is not a matter of jesting. Most inopportune! 
Most inopportune ! I was on my way to a leading 
university to give a course of lectures on Middle- 
Age Christianity. And I had many other engage- 
ments of a similar order — very important engage- 
ments. 
ANGEL. 
That is too bad. 

— 57 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

RECTOR. 

I never thought to end my days in this rude, un- 
seemly fashion. I am a person of orderly habits. 
ANGEL. 

Such sudden transitions are very trying, but your 
feelings will change. 
RECTOR. 
I never change. 
ANGEL. 

I beg your pardon ; I should have known. You are 
a clergyman. 

RECTOR. 

Rector of St. Paul's in a large eastern city. They 

would have made me a bishop soon. It will not be 

easy to fill my place; I shall be greatly missed. 

ANGEL. 

No doubt. But— 
(Drily.) 

as a minister of the gospel you would not question 

the decree that sent you here? 

RECTOR. 
(Haughtily.) 

Probably not. 

(Looking about him with a displeased air.) 

I should like to speak to someone in authority. 
("GRAHAM takes an impulsive step forivard, 
hut the ANGEL checks him with an almost im- 
perceptible gesture.) 

I will walk about a little, I prefer to make my own 

investigations. 

ANGEL. 

Do so by all means. 

-58- 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

RECTOR. 

(Walks to the upper left, pauses and looks out. 
Something on the other side arouses his interest. 
He turns back.) 
What is that large concourse of people gathering 
over there? 
ANGEL. 

Some public assembly, doubtless. 
RECTOR. 

(With brightening look.) 
A public assembly. A meeting. I should like to 
attend. I am accustomed to such gatherings. My 
services were constantly in demand on the platform. 
I have brought my manuscripts with me. 

(Indicating the portfolio.) 
Perhaps they would like to hear me speak. I 
desire — ahem — to make myself useful here. 
ANGEL. 

That is very commendable. They will be glad to 
meet you. 

(Exit the RECTOR. The ANGEL and GRA- 
HAM exchange a meaning look, the former 
amused, the latter still displeased.) 
GRAHAM. 

I should like to commend to his rectorship a fresh 
reading of his litany — ''From all blindness of heart, 
from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy, from envy, 
hatred and all uncharitableness — Good Lord, de- 
liver us." 

ANGEL. 

Tush, tush. That is a large order. Which one 

among us is free from such imperfections? 

-59- 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

GRAHAM. 

Truly, human nature seems as varied a product 
here as below. 
ANGEL. 

Why not? Growth everywhere is slow. Certain 
natures adapt themselves readily to new conditions, 
others only painfully. That young man, stript of 
all that means life to him, will not be easily recon- 
ciled to a change so abruptly forced upon him. 
And our friend, the churchman, who has missed a 
bishopric, will suffer so many pangs before his 
self-esteem is reduced to normal size, that it would 
be cruelty to impose further punishment of an arbi- 
trary nature. 
GRAHAM. 

(Moving about.) 
Mere punishment never cured anybody. I learned 
that on the bench. I think I shall enjoy living 
where there is no criminal class, no criminal code. 
ANGEL. 

There is no criminal class here, but there are de- 
grees of soul enlightenment. There are those who 
still dwell in a state of moral blindness and per- 
versity, and there are others, highly gifted with a 
sympathetic understanding, who gladly undertake 
the work of redemption and cure. Your Edith, I 
suspect, is one of these. 
GRAHAM. 

(His face mantling.) 
I can easily believe it. 

(Sounds of some fresh disturbance reach them 

from the left, a man's voice angry and rough, a 

woman's pleading.) 

— 60 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

Here is a case, if I mistake not, right at our door. 

(Enter BILL and NANCY. She is clinging to 

his arm, trying to quiet him. He looks at her 

with an ugly and frightened expression, and 

tries to free himself.) 
BILL. 

Let go of me, I say. I tell you I won't stay here. 
Stop looking at me like that. 

(He turns from her, shaking with superstitious 

fright, then throzvs her off and rushes tozvards 

the main entrance, trying to escape.) 
ANGEL. 

(Intercepting him.) 
What is the matter, Bill? 
BILL. 

(Looks at him with surly distrust.) 
Leave me alone, will you. I'm going to chuck this 
business. . . Send me down yonder — where I 
belong. 

(Jerking his head tozvards the opening.) 
and where I can get shut of her. 

(Looking fearfully about at the zvoman.) 
NANCY. 
O, Bill, you shouldn't speak like that. 

(She places her hand on his arm entreatingly.) 
BILL. 

(Shudders at her touch and breaks into a cry of 

terror and rage. He raises a trembling hand 

threateningly.) 
Let me alone. . . I'll teach you to spy on me, 
NANCY. 

(To the ANGEL.; 
Speak to him, Sir. He won't listen to me, he is 
— 61 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

afraid of me ; he thinks I am a ghost come to haunt 

him. 

ANGEL. 

(Regarding BILL thoughtfully.) 

Where do you want to go, Bill? 

BILL. 

Anywhere. Down there 

(With another jerk of his head.) 

to the other place — to hell. 

ANGEL. 

There is no other place, Bill. Hell's fires are burn- 
ing in your heart. Why do you want to leave 

Nancy? She is your best friend. 

BILL. 

(Looks at the ANGEL mith trembling uncer- 
tainty, his face contorted with grief and despair. 
He realises the impossibility of escape and 
breaks into heavy, shuddering sobs.) 

I want to get away from her. I did it — I killed her. 

I shut her mouth, good and plenty. She'd been 

spy in' on me and telling tales. 

NANCY. 

What does it matter now, Bill? It's all over, and 

we can begin again. I ain't never blamed ye. 
(To the ANGEL.; 

Can't we begin again? 

(He bows his head, much moved.) 

We was both bad, but we never had no chanst. 

BILL. 

That's a lie! — 'bout her bein' bad. She never did 

nothin' — but what women have to do when they're 

down on their luck. 

ANGEL. 

And you, Bill? 

— 62 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

BILL. 

(Hanging his head.) 
I was a tough one. I hated everybody and every- 
body hated me — and was afraid of me. 
ANGEL. 

And now it is you who are afraid. Listen to me, 
Bill. 

(Speaks slowly and impressively.) 
There is no other place. There is nothing here that 
will harm you. Nancy is not trying to haunt you — 
she only wants to help you. . . And . . , 
there are others who will help you both. Here is 
one. 

(Turns to GRAHAM who comes forward. 

BILL looks from one to the other distrustfully 

and draws back.) 
BILL. 

'Tain't no use, I tell you. You can't do nothin' with 
an old bloke like me. I never done no good thing 
in my life. 
GRAHAM. 
Then it is high time you began, my man. 

(He places himself hetzveen the tzvo, taking an 

arm of each.) 
We're just going to get acquainted, Bill. 

(The three walk slowly across the stage to lower 

left, BILL hanging hack, NANCY looking 

around at him, smiling hut anxious. GRAHAM 

looks dozmi at BILL with a reassuring smile.) 
It's all right, Bill. There's nothing to be afraid of. 

(They step forzvard again; GRAHAM turns in 

sudden remembrance.) 
If Edith should come . . . 

— 63 — 



THE ANGEL AT THE GATE 

ANGEL. 

Look before you, man — look before you. 

GRAHAM. 

(Looks through the exit, a radiant smile breaks 
over his face.) 
Why, there she is. Do you see her ? That is Edith 
— that is my wife. See, she is smiling and beckon- 
ing to us ; she will tell us what to do. 
(Exit the three.) 

(The ANGEL stands with folded arms looking 
after them zvith a brooding smile. A peacefid 
twilight settles dowfk over the scene, slowly ob- 
scuring it. The stars shine out more brightly 
against the deepening blue. He walks slowly 
back to the parapet, leaning on it and looking 
into the distance. His lips move in his evening 
prayer. He draws his hood more closely over 
his head, which droops until it rests on his out- 
stretched arms. He sleeps.) 

Curtain. 



64 



